The New Normal
''Warsaw'' was one of the most advanced ships in the navy, but she was built to kill, and bereft of luxuries like a capacious spacecraft hangar. Two ante-chambers fed from the main hangar compartment, each barely large enough to house the olive-green Pelicans stationed within. On rails from the low roof bulkhead hung four small, almost insect-like unmanned spacecraft, while below, the austere flight deck was bare save the few aircrew working with practiced efficiency, and the small huddle of senior ranks that hovered restlessly on the edge of the single landing pad like nervous schoolchildren. They were gripped by equal parts anticipation and apprehension, a heady mix in officers normally so poised and confident. It was obvious enough to unnerve the black-armoured protection detail that loitered to the rear, near the entrance hatch to the compartment. Under his polarised helmet, Major Jory Hansen glanced around his marines. As if to illustrate the point, every trigger finger twitched restlessly on its safety catch. He’d chosen them personally because they were all experienced killers. Now, though, it dawned on him that maybe that hadn’t been the best idea. Like Warsaw, being good at killing hadn’t left much room for anything else. That was probably just as true for him as it was these ODSTs. Through the open hangar door, far off in the black of space, a Pelican slowly slid into view. The pilot lined it up for approach, firing its thrusters methodically. A hard knot formed in the pit of the ODST's stomach. Enemy feet, human decks. If it were possible to spit out a thought, this came close. Years from now they'd read about this in history books, a moment they'd witnessed with their own eyes. That was, Jory thought, unless this was all some elaborate ploy. Unless they were all about to be cut down; massacred like the henhouse that welcomed the foxes in. At that this distance, there would be little the protection detail could do. Jory had protested, but Hood insisted on a soft posture. As if on queue, the Fleet Admiral looked back from the welcome party and glared at the troopers from under his thick grey-flecked brows. Jory removed his helmet, and gestured to the others to do likewise. The energy barrier shimmered and crackled blue as the blunt nose of the dropship pierced it. Just forty minutes ago, the Elite carrier emerged from the Portal, proclaiming the war over. They all ought to be giddy with barely contained joy, but instead it felt like a collective holding of breath, waiting to see what came next. A few short hours ago Humanity had been looking oblivion in the mouth, and now supposedly, after decades of genocide, all was well. Was celebrating even permitted in such circumstances? To Jory, simply being alive was a mild surprise. The Pelican began to spin, the cockpit rotating towards the open hatch and the troop compartment swinging into view. Jory felt nothing but unease. Whatever tidal wave of buried emotion would erupt when he came to terms with the end of the war- if that was indeed what this was- would have to wait. Until these things were off this goddamn ship. The sergeant to his right shifted uneasily on her feet. These men and women were nervous. And nervous marines made mistakes. The Pelican's landing gear sprawled onto the deck. The powered ramp lowered with a whine, yawning to reveal the red-lit interior. Half a dozen shadows moved within. Enemies. The ramp stopped. A shadow stepped forward from the darkness, swirled, gained mass, resolved into a shape. It was the shape of death. The shape that had for year after agonising year rained liquid fire on cities. Men, women, children, all burned away. A remorseless shape, full of hate, responsible for the suffering of untold masses. The shape of every target Jory had filled with holes his entire adult life. The shape that lunged at him in the dark hours of the night when he closed his eyes, its ghastly maw bloodied, terrible sword aglow. His vision clouded. Barely contained rage boiled within him. It rippled and writhed under his skin like some feral animal straining to be released. His fists balled. His face contorted itself. His breaths quickened. The Split-jaw cantered down the ramp of the squat dropship and stepped into the floodlit hangar, its white armour dazzling. Jory seethed. Two more followed the first, each with an alien weapon slung across their backs. They could kill Hood and the others in moments. They'd cut them down before the marines had even trained their weapons. He had to be ready. He had to be closer. Crack. The five ODSTs all spun and stared at Jory. He looked down. He unclenched his fist. In his open palm, he saw the pistol grip of his rifle fall away, shattered into pieces. Jory locked eyes with each of his marines in turn. His vision returned to him, and slowly, the heaving of his chest eased. They had been just the same, blinded or crippled or both by the raw instinct to kill that had kept them alive this long. He shook his gauntleted hand in the air, showering them fragments of polymer. The sergeant laughed at him uneasily. With rising calm, the others joined in. The huddle of Elite and Human officers conversed in low tones, making for the hangar entrance, and thankfully paying Jory and his marines no heed. If this truly was the start of an era where Jory didn't kill every Split-Jaw he saw on sight, maybe he wasn't cut out for it. Elites as allies. Was this how it would be from now on? The next shadow to emerge from the dropship resolved itself into the captain of Aegis Fate. He threw up a salute, solemnly returned by Hood. Jory's heart sank. Where's Commander Keyes? A pair of marines brought up the rear. Jory's eyes darted to the red-illuminated interior of the dropship, but his eyes could discern no more shapes. "Where’s John?" Not hatred or anger this time but panic. He left his discretion behind and closed the distance to the entourage before his marines could blink. "Sir, where's SPARTAN-117? Where's John?" Jory blurted breathlessly, eyes wide and fearful, the adrenaline still pulsing in his veins. The Fleet Admiral was mid-sentence with one of the Hinge-heads. Hood would ordinarily have uttered some withering put-down about Jory's insubordination. Instead he sighed and turned to Jory solemnly. He spoke with a low voice. Oh God. "Master Chief has not yet returned from the Ark. He has one final mission to complete." As if sensing his emotion, the white-armoured Elite turned to him. "We left when we detected the Ring's firing sequence commence, Demon. Those were the Arbiter’s instructions." The alien contorted its face to mimic Human sounds. "They possessed a human vessel to make good their escape.” He looked up at his former foe, a full foot taller than him. "They?" "He and the Arbiter. Fear not, for they are comrades, united in their efforts." "Demon and Elite. Not even Truth could stand against them," the second Elite added. Hood planted a hand firmly on Jory's shoulder. "He'll be back, Jory. You'll see." They walked away, past Jory and out into the corridor beyond, leaving him alone on the landing pad. The marines followed on behind. "Sir?" the sergeant called, and gestured to follow. Jory slung his rifle, and obeyed. John and the Arbiter, Human and Elite, working together. He supposed this really was the new normal.